


Totem

by MelanieKS



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Broken Bones, Hurt Stiles, Inside the mind of a pyschopath, Kidnapped Stiles, Kidnapping, M/M, Mild Gore, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Touching, One Shot, Pre-Slash, Protective Derek, Sick and Twisted, Torture, Tortured Stiles Stilinski, Vague References, serial killer POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 18:13:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3456968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelanieKS/pseuds/MelanieKS
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He considers himself an artist.</p><p>Perhaps even the best in his particular line of work.</p><p>What he does, it’s not from talent gifted at birth, but of curiosity giving way to rigorous research and then perfecting his skill along the years until it has truly become exquisite. Like the potter “throwing” from mere water and clay, a simple ball of mud, and shapes and molds that ball into a delicate and elaborate piece of art. Everything comes from nothing. Years and years of patience with trial and error, and he’s finally on the verge of creating a masterpiece, something worthy of showing off with pride.</p><p>Just – not yet.</p><p>It is still incomplete. It is still in the phases of editing before he’s ready to publish.</p><p>----</p><p>Serial killer kidnaps Stiles and intends to make him the last piece of his artwork.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Totem

**Author's Note:**

> Umm, so this is really messed up. Like seriously. I have no idea where it came from, as I wrote it in a day. I couldn’t stop. There are vague references to the beach scene in episode 9, season 1 of Hannibal. I haven’t seen that episode since it aired, but I guess the grotesqueness of it didn’t leave my subconscious. Of course, this is what becomes of that. I’m telling you, it’s messed up. 
> 
> This is not for the faint of heart. Stiles suffers. But there is a happy-ish ending. It can be considered pre-slash or even Sterek. Depends on your perspective. Please heed the tags/warnings. Also, this is not beta’d. I’m sorry in advance for any mistakes you find.
> 
> I am still working on the next chapter to Variant. No worries. I just had to get this one out of my head.

He considers himself an artist.

Perhaps even the best in his particular line of work.

What he does, it’s not from talent gifted at birth, but of curiosity giving way to rigorous research and then perfecting his skill along the years until it has truly become exquisite. Like the potter “throwing” from mere water and clay, a simple ball of mud, and shapes and molds that ball into a delicate and elaborate piece of art. Everything comes from nothing. Years and years of patience with trial and error, and he’s finally on the verge of creating a masterpiece, something worthy of showing off with pride.

Just – not yet.

It is still incomplete. It is still in the phases of editing before he’s ready to publish.

He prides himself on his ability to focus and persevere in his work. On this peculiar form of art he has grown to love and covet, keeping it close to his chest. So much so, he keeps it away from the prying, reproachful eyes of others, hidden away in the dim cellar underneath the house. Only until he is truly finished will the public see his work and know his name. They will flourish and gawk, praising him.

Exhilaration bubbles up within him at the prospect of completion and revealing a truly magnificent piece. He doesn’t just revel in what the end product will be, but the process it’s taken to get there. A method derived of several years of blood, sweat, and tears. Not his blood, of course, or his tears. Sweat, yes, and enough exertion and fortitude that he’s developed a lean body of sinew, which has helped him with the more…obstinate volunteers.      

With the final chapter in place, the anticipation overwhelms him until he’s giddy, floating high on a cloud in the sky. He contains these emotions only for his own amusement, not letting his contributor see anything but stoicism and precise care for every detail involved in readying the boy.

He knows now why he insisted on waiting for this particular boy to become the last piece to the extravagant puzzle, the apex of the totem. He’s kept a vigilant eye, anxious yet longsuffering in his endeavor to learn more about the boy and confirm he _is_ the right one for the final piece.

The boy will fit flawlessly. He is a work of art himself. An exceptional and striking thing now caught in a gilded snare, ripe for the delicate process of breaking bone and tendon into the right shape in order to correspond with the rest of the piece. He possesses a fiery spirit, full of defiance and a rare courage. Beneath that gorgeous flame, though, is the faint hint of terror, with the barest signs of hitched breaths and quivering lips stretched around the spit-slick cloth wedged between his teeth.

He knows he’s going to die soon, and despite the fear prickling, gnawing under the surface, the boy fights. He fights with fervent hope that he will escape or someone will rescue him. Hope has never made its presence in this place, and as much as he wants to squash that silly notion from the boy’s head, he lets him have those delusions of optimism. Lets him cling to it like a mother’s bosom. It ignites a fire in his own belly and makes his heartbeat _pitter patter_ like a bird of prey fluttering and stretching its wings.

Like all the others, he takes his time getting to know each nuance, peeling back all the layers of the boy’s personality and physique. Every detail is memorized and logged for the final phase. His last contributor to his creation will make it a wonder – a story with substance. The boy’s beautiful body will become the centerpiece in which spectators will adore and rave about for years to come.  

He can’t stop from tracing the pale skin mottled with dark moles, eliciting a strained, indignant sound from the boy. He keeps moving his fingers slowly over youthful, elastic skin, over tense, shuddering muscles, relishing in the sensations that sizzle from the nerves in the pads of his fingertips to the receptors in his brain.

Arms suspended back and up, his shoulder blades pinch together in a parody of wings, the rope binding his wrists tethered to another from the ceiling. On his knees, bound together with another length of rope, keeping him on the ground, the boy reminds him of his own days as an altar boy. Supplicating to a god he never believed in while Father Tribou’s hands roamed with boldness and intrigue.

He places his palm flat on the boy’s back, along his rigid spine, causing stressed muscles to bunch and tremble. His other hand grabs the rope from the rafter and pulls down. The boy shakes his head frantically, short puffs of air expanding his cheeks with his rising panic. With a cool, placating _shh-shhh_ he presses down and pulls the rope, forcing the boy’s arms higher and his heaving chest closer to the ground and until he hears the sweet sound of glass breaking, bones popping out of joints, and a sound akin to a strangled mewl escaping from the tight chords of the boy’s throat. Snot dribbles onto the cement between the boy’s knees as he clamps his teeth around the gag.

The boy’s shoulders are contorted beyond their normal limit, wrists dangling higher over his head and shaking. Only a few more maneuvers to shape and mold him just right, and he will be ready.  

He stares down at the boy, smiling, satisfied with the pain trembling in each pulled muscle and the salty water pooling around those big glazed-over eyes. The tears escape and slither down his flushed cheeks. He chokes on a wrecked sob, yet his eyes are alight with the fire of his iron-will. In the face of despair and agony, the boy stubbornly holds on and fights him every step of the way. Even when bones are broken and the boy screams – what a glorious sound it is – he doesn’t lose that delightful spark in his watery gaze.

A shiver dances along his spine, his mouth lax and breathing heavy. The boy lifts his amber eyes, pinning him with all the ire and loathing he can gather – weak as he is. Blood loss, dehydration, and restrained in an uncompromising position for three days will do that to the delicacy and complexity of human resilience.

Twenty-six donors before the boy and not one of them delivered the unnerving, tantalizing feelings roiling within him. Even as they all had similar eye and hair color and physique, this boy is perfect. He is unrivaled in every way.

It is time. Time to show the boy what he will become a part of, and let him appreciate the role he plays in the piece’s completion.  

He steps back and swipes the cloth away from the pillar towering high and almost touching the beams of the ceiling. With a dramatic flourish he spreads his arms wide, pride swelling in his chest.

“What do you think, hmm?” He purrs out the last syllable as he admires his own work with a whimsical smile tugging one corner of his mouth. “It’s taken me many years to accomplish. You are the finishing touch. The crown of my totem – my story.”

Contrary to popular belief, totems are not objects of religious worship, but stories and illustrations detailing the legends of the people who made them. This totem is his life. His story. And he’s ready to tell that story to the world.  

He celebrates in the wretched cries – sounds of praise – the incomplete totem receives when the boy looks at it. Truly looks at it and realizes his purpose. He struggles in vain, tearing out his shoulders further. Bones grind and crack. A final sob wrenches free before he slumps forward, unconscious.

Let the boy rest for a bit before he becomes the final chapter in the story. He’s labored and persisted over a decade on it, what is another few hours? This allows him time to prepare the preservation chemicals and embalming fluids in the kitchen upstairs. Once the body is drained of blood then came the arduous process he doesn’t always enjoy. Though it keeps the contributor from decomposing longer, it strips away that bit of spark…that last piece of humanity that he can’t help but want to cling to a little longer. Especially with this boy – this special, _special_ boy. He’s enjoyed the boy’s company more than he wants to admit, really.

What’s another day? At least—

“Oh—“ He halts, gazing wide-eyed at the unexpected visitor in his kitchen.

The young man is not older than thirty, but he carries himself with years and years of bridled anger. His broad shoulders are stiff, muscles flexing in his arms, with stormy green eyes shadowed by his dark, scowling brow. He is fierce, deadly, but beautiful all the same.  

“Where is he?” Each worse is enunciated as if the young visitor doesn’t think he understands English.  

He smiles. A spectator already? It’s too soon, but what will it hurt to show it off for a little round of critique before the finishing touch. Perhaps the young man can give him suggestions.

“Come,” he replies with a wave of his hand, “Down here. I will show you. It’s not yet complete, but I think you will appreciate the process. Do let me know what you think.”

The young man sucks in a sharp hiss. His eyes narrow, but he follows.

The boy is awake, but clearly muddled. He can barely lift his chin from his chest. His disjointed shoulders are turning wonderful shades of black and blue with enflamed red. Swollen fingers twitch above the rope binding his hands. Pretty.  

“What the… _fuck_.” The young man chokes out the last word with a sound much like revulsion. “You _sick_ fuck.”

What can he possibly be repulsed about? There is nothing but magnificence and the testimony of devotion to the completion of a work of art. He lifts his chin high, smile spreading his lips wide. “Like I said, it’s not complete. You’ll see. Once it’s finished, you will come to admire the work I’ve created. Yes?”

“Stiles!”

 _Stiles._ He likes the name. It fits like a soft Italian leather glove, much like the volatile personality of the boy.

A honeyed, garbled whine escapes from the boy.  

The young spectator is on him in a flash, slamming him so hard against the wood column by the stairs, he hears and feels ribs crack, other bones breaking. The oxygen is knocked out of him in a strained wheeze. He feels the man’s nails clamping around the delicate skin of his throat. Blood blossoms and the coppery scent fill his nostrils with its bittersweet aroma. He shudders, eyelids fluttering. Those once pale green eyes are now glowing red. He gasps, not with fear, but fascination.

“I will kill you,” the guest snarls out between elongated canines, his eyes shimmering with the rage coiling just beneath the surface of his body.

Fascinating. A human turned predator. If he’d known about this before, maybe he could have done the totem differently. Tweaked the story a bit—

He shakes his head despite the strangle hold. “You mustn’t…not yet. Let me finish. Let me finish—“

“Trust me. You’re finished.”  

He’s smashed against the column again and stars explode before his eyes, bursting and swirling in a brilliant kaleidoscope of colors. Blood coagulates on his tongue. The grip around his neck loosens and he crumbles, shattered bones crunching and grinding with the sudden descent. Pain encompassing him is not so much from the bodily abuse, but the dread of not completing his totem. His story _cannot_ be published without the last chapter.

He weeps in between shallow, crushed gasps. Blood spills from his lips. He reaches forward, grasping air, begging for the man to let him _finish_.

“Not yet. Not yet.”

The boy is released from his bindings, biting back screams as his arms lower. Then the other embraces him in a shielding cocoon of power and tenderness, stroking back sweat-soaked hair and hands ghosting over abused flesh. He quietly cries against the man’s shoulder, distended fingers grappling for solid and steady purchase, while the man’s greater stature swallows the boy like a thick cloak.

“I’ve got you. You’re okay. I’ve got you,” the man whispers, contradicting the ferocity of his nature. His voice conveys emotions deeper than a friend or even a brother. There is love and a profound need to shelter the boy from harm. He stands, carrying the boy like a bride to the honeymoon suite, toward the stairs.

“T-took y’long…’nough.”  

“I’m here now.”

“Human.” The boy snorts out a wet, bitter laugh, his wavering gaze seeking his body slumped against the column. A shaky, yet smug grin twitches the corners of the boy’s mouth. “Jus’ human.”  

“Still a monster,” the boy’s savior supplies through a deep, unnatural rumble in his throat.

No, he is a master: the finest in his profession. What he has created is not a monstrosity, but a piece worthy of glorification and applause. Why can’t they see that? They are devoid of the true intricacy and splendor of art. They do not see. They do not understand. He has to make them _see._

“W-ait,” he sputters, outstretching his hand before it drops, weightless at his side. His voice is sickly wet as more warm blood spits up and coats his mouth. His brain feels thick and fuzzy, like stuffed with wool, while his heartbeat is rapid and wild against its cage. Skin is cold, clammy.

He will die from the shock soon. Not long and his core temperature and blood pressure will drop. Organs will shut down. He will succumb to intense thirst and circulatory failure and die.

Then he _must_ become the last piece. The totem must be finished, even though it will be tarnished because of the boy’s absence.

He implores for them to grant his last wish. He is ignored.

They disappear up the stairs, heavy footfalls echo on the creaking floorboards above before all goes quiet. He weeps some more, tears mingling with the crimson stains on his chin. Legs and arms won’t move. He can’t crawl toward the totem and sacrifice himself to its completion. Then, and only then, can his story be told with the grandeur it deserves.

The young man returns. He lowers in a crouch, eyes still ignited in red flames, with elongated fangs bared as he appraises through barely contained fury. Hands are curled claws resting over bent knees.

“If it were up to me, I would leave you to die slowly and painfully, choking on your own blood, for what you’ve done to Stiles. To _them_ ,” he bites out as if he swallowed something foul. “I am a monster in my own right, but _nothing_ like you. You don’t deserve mercy, but I will give it. Because of Stiles.”

He feels a clawed hand grasp his neck in a constricting hold. All he can think of is how oddly stunning the young man is in his distorted, beastly visage. He smiles red.

Then he ceases to know or feel anything.  

 


End file.
